Chasing Unicornis in Nepal

THE narrow path wove randomly through the towering stands of elephant grass. Here, on Nepal’s humid, sweeping Terai grasslands in Chitwan National Park, a guide, a small group of other tourists and I were looking for the pride of Nepal’s conservation movement. We were hunting unicornis: Rhinoceros Unicornis actually, the rare one-horned rhinoceros. The grass and forests through which we were currently toiling was their native habitat.

Until I arrived in Chitwan, all I’d heard of Nepal was the Himalayas. To be frank, I had wondered how rhinoceroses could possibly survive on vertiginous mountain slopes, but it turns out, they don’t. Quite a reasonable proportion of Nepal is actually covered by sweeping savannas, lush subtropical jungle, and flat, prosperous rice paddy fields. It is in the former two that rhinoceros really live.

Originally a hunting reserve where big game like the rhinoceros were, ironically, hunted, Chitwan National park is today both a National Park and a UNESCO recognised World Heritage Site. It is the most important sanctuary for one-horned rhinoceros in the world. The Nepalese Government, together with conservation bodies like WWF have been remarkably successful at bringing these fabulous creatures back from the brink of complete annihilation. Although the rhinos have had a rocky road, and despite ongoing problems caused by poaching, numbers are slowly climbing. The national park is a wonderful place to visit.

The boat trip to the trailhead a day and a half earlier had been one of complete ecological wonderment. We had seen an amazing array of birdlife: herons, kingfishers, ruddy shell-ducks, many species seasonal visitors on their southbound migrations from as far away as Siberia. We’d glimpsed a gharial, a rare crocodilian species whose slender, elegant snout bristled with remarkably pointy teeth. We’d seen several examples of the unfortunately more common marsh-mugger crocodile, lounging malevolently on the riverbanks. Well known man-eaters, they eyed us in a calculating, reptilian fashion as we passed, our boat suddenly seeming very flimsy.

Small, brown, flat-bodied frogs hopped unathletically through the shallows, eyes bulging and gulping with the effort. Iridescent dragonflies zipped and hovered over calmer spots of water. Unfortunately, though, regardless of the fact that Chitwan was home to Bengal tigers, sloth bears, four species of deer, two of monkeys, and an apparent plethora of other animal species, so far on the trek itself we’d seen nothing much of great interest, despite the very diligent application of effort by all involved.

Actually, not strictly true, we’d seen a lot of elephant grass. I’d never heard of elephant grass before and if you consider yourself a bit of a grass boffin, it is a fantastically impressive species to see: verdant, luxuriant in habit, growing to a towering height of over 12ft or so. Most people however, are not enormously interested in grass and after five minutes quickly realise that elephant grass, though growing to improbably lofty heights, has a frustrating ability to obscure all traces of wildlife. The only thing we’d seen despite many hours of sweaty trekking was the occasional, small, nondescript brown bird. I had begun to theorise, a trifle blackly, that it was actually the same brown bird that was appearing every half an hour just to taunt us. Such are the perils of eco-tourism.

But just as I was wiping the sweat from my filthy brow with an even filthier hand and wondering about the wisdom of coming on this trek so soon after the monsoon, when the humidity was a hundred percent and a thousand insects were gleefully feasting on any scrap of exposed flesh, there, over the tops of the waving elephant grass, was a sight that took my breath away. No, it was not the sight of an enormous rhinoceros, horn pointed majestically toward the setting sun; but it was a clear view of the towering, snow capped Himalayan Mountains. They looked so close I could almost touch them. It was utterly glorious. We returned to camp in good spirits.

Time for phase two of our rhino hunt: safari via elephant.

Chitwan National Park stands not far from Nepal’s government-run elephant breeding colony at Khorsor. Elephants have always held a sacred and very useful place in Nepalese society and elephant safari has always been the best way to spot wild rhinoceros. At Khorsor, domesticated female elephants are housed and bred and the resultant offspring are trained for work with humans. Previously, the breaking in process for the elephant youngsters was sometimes brutal and for the handlers was occasionally fatal.

Recently, the government and the WWF have stepped in to improve life for all concerned. Animal training experts, like noted Australian animal behaviourist Dr Andrew McLean, have liaised with Nepalese mahouts to develop a system of elephant training that is far gentler and more humane than previous practices. Although in its infancy, the program is showing great promise.

The elephant and mahout arrived just as the heat from the day began to dissipate. Four of us clambered into the saddle on its back, the mahout sitting on the elephant’s neck. We were off, the elephant carefully crossing the broad creek before striding into the long grass. The dreaded, overly-exuberant grass which had so far thwarted us, now came only to our knees, the tough stems falling effortlessly below our pachyderm’s great feet.

The view was sensational. Small birds chirruped and flitted as we passed and the sun bathed everything in a golden glow. The mighty Himalayas looked down on us and smiled.

But still we saw no rhinoceros. Rounding the edge of the grassland, the mahout drove the elephant into the thick bush near our camp. For a huge animal, it moved with surprising agility. And suddenly there, in a small shallow wallow, back colonised by the pop-eyed, gulping frogs, was a very muddy rhinoceros. My heart almost stopped beating. The rhinoceros quickly spotted us, and with a sigh, heaved itself to its feet, and seemed to say “Well, I guess I should probably run away…” However, before it could leave its relaxing bath, the mahout skilfully drove the elephant to cut off his escape. The rhinoceros paused in contemplation, and slowly sat down in the mud. The mud clearly felt good, because he started to rub his bottom. “Ooohh sooo soothing…” his face seemed to say as he abandoned himself to the ecstasy of it.

With us thoroughly forgotten, the rhino toppled gracelessly into the mud scattering frogs in all directions. And he rolled and rolled and rolled. Leaving him to his pleasure, the mahout turned the elephant to go. It had been a fabulous afternoon.